PS You're An Idiot
by Bells23552
Summary: Post-Fall, John is cleaning out Sherlock's room when he stumbles upon a small box and several letters. All of them are addressed to him. T to be safe. Heavy implications of Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 A Box Does Not Portray Its Contents

It had been a few months since The Fall, as the media referred to it. For John, it had been a few months of mourning and an empty feeling taking home in his stomach, but he was getting better. Slowly.

As part of the healing process, it was suggested his therapist to clean the flat of Sherlock's things. Initially, the idea made John's head spin. He couldn't do that, no possible way could he ever get rid of Sherlock-Sherlock's things. Of course, after a few more weeks of staring forlornly at everything in the flat, John relented.

That's what had brought him to standing in the doorway of Sherlock's room. The last place he had to clean. John had previously spent a tremendous amount of time cleaning out their,-no.. his living room. He had been especially distracted looking through the bookcase, mainly at the large number of books on bees that Sherlock seemed to own. John felt a pang in his chest at the knowledge that he hadn't known about this minor obsession of Sherlock's.

Later, after removing everything Sherlock owned from the room, John had stared at the room with a stoic expression. He felt like a stranger in his own home, or what used to be home to him.

Snapping back into current time, John braved forward into the room he entered a number of times he could count on one hand. Well, two hands now, he supposed. Although this shouldn't really count, it wasn't Sherlock's room. Not anymore.

John rubbed a hand down his face, the stubble on his face scratching at his palm. He scanned the room, which screamed Sherlock. The haphazardly made bed, the framed picture of the periodic table, a desk with drawers exploding with papers, it was all utterly Sherlock. And it hurt.

John stepped in further, looking between areas he was contemplating starting at. Definitely not the desk, that seemed hazardous, John had decided. He eventually figured that under the bed would be good. Either there would be nothing and he could move on or there was an old experiment that he could dispose of quickly, before it got too corrosive or something.

Kneeling down next to the bed, his eyes fixed on the spot Sherlock must have slept in last. John smoothed a hand over the sheets, not really feeling the soft linen. Again, he caught himself, retracting his hand like the sheets had bitten him and sitting back on his heels.

Sighing, he leaned over and lifted the duvet to better see under the cramped space under the bed. Aside from the alarming amount of dust, there were only discarded paper balls, what looked like a belt (at least John hoped), and.. A small box.

Frowning to himself, John reached his hand out and grabbed onto it, pulling it out from the depths and into the hazy light of the room. He raised a questioning eyebrow, turning it over in his hands. The box wasn't impressive, about the size of a shoe box and its color, a plain grey.

John's mind whirred with the possibility of its contents. The slight excitement of opening a present on Christmas was humming at the back of his mind.

"Oh, stop." John said to himself, "It's probably just.. Mold samples." He huffed, turning it over to look at the small silver latch that held the lid to the base.

Tapping his fingers on the sides, he contemplated opening it. For some reason, it felt like an invasion of privacy, even if Sherlock was dead. He'll never know, John thought grimly as he flipped the silver latch and lifted the lid. It opened easily, as if it had been used often, and its contents were... Anticlimactic.

The box was filled with envelopes, a whole lot of closed envelopes. John scoffed at the sight, his fantasies of something scandalous dying with his next breath. He looked them over, thumbing over the top of them. They were neatly fitted, reminding John of an office filing cabinet, and there were enough to fill the box. Out of curiosity, John lifted one from the middle reading Sherlock's spidery scrawl across the front. It was a date, last June, John realized. He set that one back in its place and instead started at the beginning. After reading that date he frowned, putting it back and skimming through the rest of the envelopes. They were chronologically ordered, all the way to the day before... The day before Sherlock fell.

John picked the first envelope up again, the date was familiar to him, but not outstandingly so. He stuck his thumb under the corner of the envelope, ripping it open with a new found urgency. Pulling out the contents—a single sheet of paper, written on thoroughly—John's eyes skimmed the page. Although he didn't know was to expect in the first place, John was surprised to find that it was a letter.

A letter addressed to him.


	2. Chapter 2: Letter One

Letter One.

John stared at the paper rather than begin reading it. He was afraid that the scribbles would turn out to be something he wished to forget. John shook his head, now he was afraid of letters? Eyes skimming the page again, John wasn't taking anything in. Worrying at his bottom lip, John folded the paper closed and stuck it in the box. Staring at the container, John stood up and backed out of the room.

He tried everything to keep his mind off the letter. Making tea, reading, watching telly, making lunch, making another cup of tea. Literally everything. But nothing kept his thoughts from wandering to the grey box filled with white paper.

John's iron will broke a lengthy three hours later, leaving him staring down the box like it had personally offended him. In this instance, it may as well have. He ran his hand over the smooth lid again, thumbing over the latch in contemplation.

"Fine. You win." He relented after another minute, opening the box. He the first letter out with a haste that he would latter deny. Smoothing his hand over the written on page, John braced himself.

_John, _

_Today we met, and subsequently I began writing letters again. I didn't want to, I've always thought this was a childish way to deal with things, but I was thinking about you too much. The invalided army doctor that wandered in with Stamford and found me fascinating. Perhaps that is a bit vain, but I have little regard for propriety. As you shall find out soon. So now here I am, scribbling on a piece of paper in lousy attempt to cope with someone I fail to understand. _

_It's always been like this, writing letters, but you wouldn't care, John. You would pretend to, but that has little matter now. Besides, why I do this isn't the focus, you are. One Dr. John Watson._

_After a brief—and by brief I meanly nonexistent—introduction via cell phone sharing, I asked you, or rather told you, to come live with me. And even though I had been adamant about my deductions, I'm unsure as to whether you will actually show up. _

_Sometimes I wish I was better at things like this. Then, maybe I wouldn't be so clueless. When you walked in, offered a stranger your phone, what were you doing? I still don't understand your actions. You frustrate me, John. Why didn't you yell at me when I laid your life, your invalidation in front of you? Everyone does. Everyone always does. _

_I don't think you will last; however, the violin playing isn't the worst of it. It's nothing personal, John. You are bound to realize I'm not worth the hassle, or the cheap rent. _

_Regards, _

_Sherlock_

_P.S. You showed up. Congratulations, John, you managed to surprise me. _

John was a mess once he finished, his hands shaking to a degree that even if he wanted to read Sherlock's letter again, he couldn't. A part of him was saying it was ridiculous to act like this, that it was just a letter. It was hardly anything to nearly cry over.

He had no idea that Sherlock had felt so uncertain about, well, anything. The letters showed an entirely different side of Sherlock, one that made John miss him all over again.

Folding the letter, John put it back in the box. His hand lingered over the other letters. John wasn't sure if he could manage to go through them... But then again, he'd never get another chance to see through Sherlock's eyes.

"Later." John decided, informing the box as he shut it again. This time though, John picked it up and took it with him into the living room.


	3. Chapter 3: Letter Two

**AN: Woo! Sorry this took a bit longer, but I'm trying to write more for each chapter. Hopefully this one is suffice! Thank you for all the kind reviews, they honestly are what keep me going. You're all brilliant 3 **

John thought of Sherlock for the rest of the day. Of course he did that most days, but for once it wasn't sad. John was mostly thinking about Sherlock and the letters, mainly when he found the time to write them, and how John had no idea whatsoever. He had thought he'd known everything about his friend. Not because he wanted to but mainly because Sherlock had very little secrets.

He decided not to read another letter today. John didn't want to make them an obsession. They were obviously Sherlock's outlet for his feelings, the ones he didn't allow himself to show during the day, so John wanted to keep them special. He knew the man himself would scoff at such ideas, but John didn't care. If he was going to read them, he was going to do it his way. After all, it was high time Sherlock's influence stopped swaying John's choices.

John was surprised at his own thoughts. For months now, all he could do was be dejected, less than himself. What were these letters doing to him? John pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath.

Grabbing his coat, John headed out to get some air. He zipped it up against the biting wind, heading for a familiar spot in the park. It took a while, but he reached the bench where he and Mike sat, catching up. John chuckled at the thought, he had initial not wanted to talk to Mike at all. Half of him had been telling him to keep walking.

"Glad I didn't." John said to no one in particular as he sat down. For an indeterminate amount of time, John just watched as people walked past. He tried to see what Sherlock might have saw, trying to see if he could tell who was having an affair or had gotten a promotion. After a few attempts, John dubbed it a failure. Seeing through the eyes of a genius is difficult when there's no feedback.

Once he felt grounded enough-about the time the sun began to set-John headed home. His face was frozen (literally) in a frown, and he hastened his pace. He had decided to read another letter, but as he made his way closer to home it was evident he was going to be too tired to deal with the emotional event that is letter reading.

He entered and climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to alert Mrs. Hudson. She always tried to invite him in for tea, which he would accept if not for the awkward silences and the pitying looks she gave him. John wanted company, not charity. Even if her intentions were good, it always ended with Mrs. Hudson trying to invite him along on a day trip of some sort ("Just to get your mind off of things, dearie.").

John sat down with every intention to reach over and read the next letter. Such plans were thwarted when his body sagged back into the cushions of the seat, and his eyelid began feeling heavier. John knew he would hate himself later if he fell asleep sitting up, but...

Snapping awake, disoriented and not at all rested, John groaned and stood up on protesting legs. The box only stared at him mockingly, "Oh, Shut up." John huffed, not caring that he was speaking to an inanimate object. It was only time to worry when the objects started talking back.

He shuffled into the kitchen and began making tea, pouring the last bit of milk into his mug and sitting at the startlingly clean table. John found himself staring at the many scratches and burns on the table. It was like a map of the past, of arguments and the one situation where Sherlock had caught his trousers on fire. Before he knew it, John was chuckling to himself at the memory. It was the first time he'd laughed in what felt like ages and it was brilliant.

John settled back in his chair, letting out a content sigh. He figured that the letters were giving him some sort of closure, even if he had only read one. Speaking of, John stood up with his tea in hand and made for the living room. Setting the mug on the side table, John picked up the box and pulled out the next envelope.

The date was only two days after the first one, John noticed, as he tore it open and pulled out two sheets of paper.

"I honestly can't be this confusing..." John mused to himself as he began to read.

_Dear John,_

_Against all odds, you moved in. I'm still in slight shock, although that might just be from the case finishing. I would never admit it..well, actually, I'll get to that later. I enjoy writing chronologically. It makes for neater letters._

_I thought for sure that you would just become another boring flat mate, you seemed wary of my things and skeptical of my occupation. I had seen all of that before, but as I was leaving for the crime scene… I heard you yell, John. You yelled about your leg and something in me made me go back, made me invite you along. And even if it didn't seem like it, I was glad I did._

_Of course, I did only bring you along for someone to back up my completely correct observations, but even so the praise was nice. Unexpected, but nice. Aside from inflating my ego, you were actually of assistance, John. And on some degree, I regret abandoning you at the scene. Sometimes I get distracted, please understand that it is nothing personal._

_You even survived a meeting with Mycroft, which is all the more impressive. I'm sure he attempted to be intimidating, but that's rather difficult when one is a fat government official who was probably carrying an ever-so-threatening umbrella. But that is beside the point._

_I was sure you would have been mad, having made you run through London, but being breathless and laughing with you in the hall, the look on your face when Angelo returned your cane. I found that I was again glad for inviting you along. At least the exposure to my life had made the drugs bust less of an ordeal. Last time that happened, I was sued by my landlord. Don't worry, the trial fell flat._

_It was embarrassing, I'll admit. The way they went through my things. What did you think of me, John? Did you realize that I actually was a freak? Or maybe the doubts that I was a psychopath were becoming less doubtful. It was quite a commotion as well, with the case still going on. Either way, it was wrong of me to prompt you to say your final words. It must have been hard for you, reliving your near death experience, and in front of all those people. You have to understand, John, when I'm on a case.. I don't think about other things. A sort of a tunnel vision, if you will._

_The rest of the night went by in something of a blur for me, and I mean that as loosely as possible because I remember everything vividly. I knew I shouldn't have left without a word, but I wanted answers. And like always, I got more than I wanted._

_When confronted with the pills, I made sure to keep as stoic as possible, even if my mind was whirring faster than it had in ages. You were right; I was going to take the pill. A part of me thought I was right, confident even; but another part of me wondered if I even cared if I was wrong. Don't worry, John, I'm not suicidal. I just think that either way, it wouldn't matter if I existed or not. The grim truth of the world is that it always keeps spinning._

_You couldn't see it, John, but I was shaking. Sherlock Holmes, sociopath and/or psychopath, was terrified of a little small pill. I didn't have long to be scared however, as the cabbie was shot down._

_Thank you, John. For saving my life, for agreeing to live with me, for giving me a chance._

_Thank you._

_Regards,_

_Sherlock_

John folded the papers, holding them in his hands for a long moment before putting them in the box again. He shut the lid and put it down, picked it up, put it down, opened the lid, put it down, walked away. John didn't know what to do with himself, with all this newfound information.

"You're welcome, Sherlock." John said finally, a small smile on his face. Maybe reading these letters wouldn't be as bad as he thought.


	4. Chapter 4: Interlude

John didn't think about the box the next day, instead he busied himself with packing away Sherlock's things, the task becoming a bit easier. At one point, John found himself smiling as he tossed away a few old petri dishes that were stained with God-knows-what. It was as if the box of letters was some sort of closure for him. As John's therapist had pointed out, that's what he had been lacking. A proper goodbye.

When he finished the rest of the packing (mostly just science equipment and clothes that Mycroft had insisted on keeping in storage) John sat down in his chair, staring at the black box.

"I really shouldn't." He told himself and perhaps the box as well, "What if I read something I really don't want to? Or shouldn't?" John mused to himself, fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of his chair.

Anything could be written in them. Absolutely anything. The very idea of that was enough to bring back a low amount of excitement somewhere in the back of his mind. The slight buzzing of facing something with multiple, unknown possibilities. A smaller part of John was protesting this feeling, saying that he shouldn't be so happy over a box of letters, but he couldn't help it.

Unable to help himself, John took the box and set it in his lap. That was as far as he got before being overwhelmed with the very nature of what was going on, and the burning feeling of loss was settling in again.

"This is ridiculous. I shouldn't be acting like this." John told himself as he traced the edges of the lid, "Why couldn't you just be normal for once? Even in.. death." He worked out, the last word tasting sour in his mouth.

Whatever closure the first letter provided had clearly worn off, especially at the sight of other letters. Swallowing the small bit of sadness that had nested in the back of his throat, John fingered through the letters, trying to match memories with the dates scribbled on the front.

It took a while (even with the help of his blog), but John had eventually organized the letters in his own sort of way. There were five relatively thick envelopes, which were from their big cases, John had realized; and fifteen or so thinner ones, letters that were probably only one page. There was even a single scrap of paper stuck between two with rapid scrawling over it reading:

_John, you are such an insufferable idiot sometimes. That was an important experiment and you just tossed the hands into the trash! I can't believe you.__  
__Sherlock__  
__P.S. Did I mention? You're an idiot._

John may or may not have slipped that one into his pocket with a grin.

He stared at the envelopes now on the floor. John had grouped them by date, his meticulous organization skills taking over. If he were to read all of them, he'd have to do it chronologically, even if his fingers itched towards the last letter.

He wasn't going to read the next long letter, at least, not right away. John saw it as a sort of luxury. The more Sherlock wrote the more John had of him.

Sighing to himself, John checked his watch. "Two hours? I spent two hours looking at paper?" He pinched the bridge of his nose before standing up from the floor, his muscles groaning in protest. "One letter before bed." He resolved after a long mental debate, picking up the next one. It was light in his hands as he slid a finger under the seal, wincing as he felt the sting of a paper cut.

With no small amount of anxiousness, John pulled out the letter, huffing when he realized it was hardly a paragraph and a half long. He had been worried over nothing it seemed, the contents only Sherlock rambling on about an experiment. Still, John found that it was nice, like a breath of normalcy. If he wanted, he could pretend that Sherlock was actually mailing him these letters. John shook his head immediately at those thoughts. That was not letting go, he reminded himself as he put the letter back in the box along with the other opened one.

Before he could convince himself to stay and read another, John hurried up to bed. He ignored the persistent thoughts about the larger letters, somehow finding sleep instead.

Tomorrow, John resolved, tomorrow he would read more.


End file.
